by Barbara Kyle
“Fenella, look at me.” He pulled her gently to turn back to him. She made her eyes meet his. “Aren’t they?” he asked.
The bandage around his head had slipped. The edge lay aslant across his eyebrow. She reached out and lightly tugged the linen up and tucked it back in place. “Different, Claes? No, the same.” She squeezed his hand. “The same as five years ago.”
She slid her hand free. “Now, rest.”
She awoke early the next morning to the sound of men shouting. Feet tramped the deck above her head. Claes lay asleep beside her and she rose quietly so as not to disturb him. She dressed quickly, a matter only of pulling her dress on over the shift she had slept in and scuffing her feet into her shoes. The ship was unusually still. A glance out the big stern window showed a sea of long swells like low hills, the morning sun shining on the vastness of blue.
She came up on deck to find the full crew of perhaps thirty men massed in the waist, and the ship hove to, stopped in the water. Many of the men were grumbling; all looked agitated. Some had climbed the ratlines to watch; some perched farther aloft, on the yards. A long stone’s throw away lay La Marck’s ship, also hove to. La Marck’s whole crew, it seemed, lined the rails, as agitated as the men around Fenella. And another ship lay hove to just beyond La Marck’s. What was going on?
She spotted Berck by the starboard main brace and made her way to him.
“Berck, what’s happening?”
“That’s what we all want to know.” He jerked his bearded chin aft. Up on the quarterdeck Adam stood with La Marck and another man. “Captain La Marck and Captain Bloys have come to parley. But it seems they and Lord Thornleigh don’t see eye to eye.”
“Bloys? The Sea Beggar captain?”
“One with a hungry crew.”
Adam came forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked out at the gathered seamen. “This is up to you men. I say the time for running and hiding is over. The time for burying our dead at sea is over. It’s time to attack. If we gather the Sea Beggars together we have the strength. If we can break Alba’s grip, the prince of Orange is ready to send an army to smash him.”
“I’m all for it,” La Marck said, “but attack where?”
“Rotterdam!” someone shouted.
“Enkhuizen!” another shouted from La Marck’s ship.
“No, we need victualing!” Bloys insisted. “My men are near starved.”
“That’s God’s truth,” La Marck said to Adam. “My men have only maggoty biscuit. It’s meat we need and freshwater. We can’t fight with starving men.”
A yell from the ratlines: “Let’s raid the ports, like before! Plenty of victuals!”
Adam said, “If we keep roaming and raiding, the Spaniards will just pick us off one by one. We need to stand together, and attack.”
That brought a thunder of shouting, men calling out on all three ships. Adam was saying something and Fenella longed to hear him, but the clamor of voices drowned him out. Furious at the disorderly uproar, she glanced at Berck and saw a pale face beyond him moving among the men. It was Claes. He was coming toward her.
“Claes, no,” she said, “you should get below.”
He reached her, saying something, but his voice was faint in the din. From the expression on his face it was clear he felt his words were urgent.
“Claes, what is it?” She put her ear to his mouth.
“South,” he said. “Sail south for Brielle. No time to lose.”
Something in his eyes sent a shiver up her backbone. He knows something. “Why Brielle?”
“Attack.”
That’s what Adam wants. She turned and shouted, “Listen to this man!”
The men ignored her or didn’t hear, carrying on with their clamor while the three captains went back to arguing among themselves. La Marck drew his sword and shouted something about a raid for gold to buy weapons. He brandished the sword high in a show of resolve, and a cheer went up from half the men. Fenella feared La Marck would soon win them all over. She saw the pistol in Berck’s belt. She grabbed it. “A ball,” she told him, an order. Startled, he dug out a ball from the pouch at his waist, and Fenella loaded the pistol. She raised it, pointed at the sky, and fired.
At the shot the deck fell silent.
“Listen to this man!” she said, pointing to Claes.
All eyes turned to him. He raised his face to address the three captains. “Brielle,” he said, his voice stronger, clearer. “We can take Brielle.”
“Bah!” someone shouted. “There’s eight hundred dago soldiers at that garrison. It’d be suicide.”
“No,” Claes said, “they’re not—” He stopped to cough. The grumbling voices rose again, ignoring him.
“Listen to him!” Fenella shouted. “He’s Claes Doorn, leader of the Brethren!”
They all looked again at Claes, this time with clear curiosity.
Adam came to the quarterdeck’s forward rail. He stared down at Claes, looking surprised. He seemed skeptical yet eager all at once, and called across the deck, “Doorn, why Brielle? What do you know about Brielle?”
“In prison the Brethren got word to me. Alba has sent the Brielle garrison to Utrecht to put down an uprising. The town is practically defenseless. Attack, now. The Brethren will join you.”
20
The Eve of Battle
Fenella could not sleep. She pulled on a cloak that Berck had earlier scrounged for her, checked that Claes was sleeping soundly, and left the cabin. She wanted air. Wanted something to take her mind off the perils that lay in store when they attacked Brielle. It wasn’t fear that made her so jumpy. She’d felt worse fear in Alba’s dungeon. This was something else. She hardly knew what, only that her nerves were wound so tightly she needed to get out.
She came up on deck into the waist of the ship. The night was clear, the deck moon-drenched, white. The Gotland, bearing southeast, was making good progress in the fresh breeze, sailing on a smooth beam reach. She thought, If the wind holds we’ll make landfall by morning. Ahead of them La Marck’s flagship, the Eenhoorn, was a ghostly form beyond the Gotland’s foremast and bowsprit, her lanterns winking on the stern. Fenella looked up at the stars caught among the sails. Wind hummed and thrummed and whistled in the rigging. It was as if the Gotland were restless, eager to get to Brielle. She felt the same restlessness. I must be brainsick, she thought, because God alone knows what awaits us. She remembered once telling Johan that rebels going up against Imperial Spain were like minnows attacking a shark. Well, at least these minnows were not going to be swallowed without a fight.
Claes seemed eager for the fight. The last three days of rest had done much to restore him to health. His ravaged ear was healing well, and Fenella saw that every hour more of his vigor returned. It had felt strange to lie beside him these nights. She sensed he was giving her time to get used to him again. He had not touched her.
She scanned the quarterdeck, wanting to go up and look out from the stern. She would not if Adam was there. She had been avoiding him and was sure he was steering clear of her, too. Not difficult for either of them, since he had the ship to captain and she’d been nursing Claes as he got his strength back. She saw two figures standing on the quarterdeck in the silvery moonlight. One was Adam’s mate, James Curry, who had the watch. He stood at the windward rail, one hand on the ratline, looking out at the night. Behind him was the helmsman at the wheel. No Adam.
She went up the stairs. Curry turned to her. “Everything all right, Mistress Doorn?”
“Yes, fine, Master Curry. I just wanted some fresh air. I won’t disturb you.”
“No disturbance at all, ma’am,” he said gallantly, and made a sweeping gesture that said, Be my guest.
She went aft and looked out over the taffrail. In the ship’s dark wake, lights flickered like a ragged spray of fireflies: lanterns on the twenty-one Sea Beggar vessels that followed the Gotland and the Eenhoorn. It had taken three days to hail them all and gather them together, and what a motley fleet it
was. Three big carracks robust enough to voyage to the New World. Lively pinnaces. Beamy, workaday coastal ships. Refitted fishing smacks. The crews aboard them, perhaps four hundred men in all, were equally diverse. Some had enjoyed status and property before the Spaniards invaded, like Captain William Bloys, who’d once had the lordship of Treslong and whose brother had been executed by Alba. Others had been shopkeepers and artisans and common seamen, and some were mere opportunistic rovers only after spoils. All were exiles. For over three years they had roamed the Channel preying on Spanish shipping, granted safe harbor for victualing in English ports until Spain had rattled its swords at the Queen and she, acquiescing, had expelled the Sea Beggars. Homeless now, they were on the brink of starvation.
Fenella watched them in the moonlight, a small forest of masts atilt to larboard, canvas bellying, hulls carving the low waves. This sight was what she had left her berth for, she realized. A sight to fortify her. Four hundred men with one goal. She needed to see them, because doubts gnawed her. Did these men stand a chance in the fight ahead? Few had any experience as soldiers. La Marck had proved a crafty admiral of his pack of vagabonds, but could he lead a disciplined assault on a fortified city? And what if Claes’s information was wrong and they found the Spanish garrison at full strength with a thousand or more battle-hardened troops? Yet she had to trust his judgment. Claes was no green recruit; he had fought Spaniards, had led the Brethren on dangerous missions. Soon he would be fighting alongside the Beggars. So would Adam. She admired the courage of both men . . . and feared for them both. The restlessness churned within her. She wished there were something she could do.
Her restless frustration had begun during the meeting that La Marck and Adam had held with four of the captains and Claes, assembling in Adam’s cabin. Fenella had stayed, eager to hear their plans, unsettling though it was to see Adam and Claes together. She knew it unsettled them, too.
“I know Brielle,” William Bloys had told them. His father had been governor there before the Spaniards came. “It’s a fine, wide port on the River Maas. Their shipping sails to Zeeland, Rotterdam, Dordrecht, and they have a trade agreement with the Hansa towns, even have their own trading post in Sweden.” He’d drawn a detailed map, and as the others examined it he explained the layout of the city. “It’s on Voorne Island and lies at the southern tip. It’s not a large city, but it is well walled. And when I was last there, about eight years ago, it was fortified.”
“Who’s the mayor?” La Marck asked.
“I don’t know.”
Claes did. “His name is Koekebakker.”
“A Brethren sympathizer?” Adam asked.
The others looked at Claes hopefully. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Koekebakker’s a Spanish appointee. But he’s not popular. He rigorously enforces the Spaniards’ ten percent tax on all goods bought and sold. My information is that there’s support for the Brethren among the people.”
“Support for the prince of Orange,” La Marck sternly clarified. “If we do this, we do it in the Prince’s name. We may be beggars, but we’re not brigands.” There were arch looks from the other captains. They had all been raiding small seaports. La Marck added gruffly, “Well, not anymore.”
“I suggest we break into two parties,” Adam said, studying the map. “One takes the southern gate, the other the northern gate. We only need one group to break through.”
They discussed landing parties, group leaders, munitions, boats. Listening, Fenella felt a squall of emotions. She longed to help but had nothing to contribute. And to see Claes and Adam working together as comrades in arms was disconcerting but also inspiring.
On deck now, footsteps sounded behind her in the moonlight. She turned, expecting to see Curry come to join her at the taffrail. Her breath caught. It was Adam.
“I’d like a word,” he said. His cool, aloof tone stung her. He stood a pace away from her as though unwilling to come near. “We’ll enter the mouth of the Maas by morning. I’m going to put you ashore before we reach Brielle.”
Hope sparked in her that they had some special mission for her. “Why?”
“It’s going to be bloody. Even if your husband is right about the garrison, Brielle will defend itself. A walled city under attack heaps corpses at its gates. So I’ll put you ashore first.”
She felt insulted. “And what would I do ashore?”
“Live.”
The intensity he forced into the word startled her. Was he really so unforgiving? Or was it warmth she’d heard? She collected herself. “Thank you, but no, I’ll stay.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she said firmly, “You may be captain of these men, but the Gotland is my ship, remember? I’ll stay.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she saw a struggle thrashing in his eyes. Then he made a terse bow of the head. “As you wish.” He turned to start back across the quarterdeck.
“Wait.” She could not bear to have him leave with such cold reserve. It might be her last chance to talk to him. She touched his arm. “Please, wait. There’s so much to say.”
He turned slowly. “Is there?”
How to begin? She glanced at Curry. He had moved to the quarterdeck’s forward rail, his back to them. He couldn’t hear. “Your son and daughter,” she said. “When we parted . . . you were going to get them. What went wrong?”
A look of pain flickered in his eyes. “I failed.”
“You could not find them?”
He seemed about to answer and she sensed that he wanted to explain, but he stopped. “Curry,” he said, raising his voice across the quarterdeck. “I’ll take the watch. Stand by.” Curry nodded and left them, going down the stairs into the shadows of the waist. The helmsman at the wheel continued to watch the sea, eyes ahead. He was far enough away that he could not hear. Adam turned back to Fenella. “I did find them. And they were eager to come with me. I had them, but . . .” His tone was bitter. “My wife was prepared for that. She’d sent a gunman. He fired on us. I had to leave Kate and Robert, for their own safety.”
Fenella was amazed. “Your wife sent someone to kill you?”
He jerked a nod, and she saw that the memory tore at him.
“I’m so sorry. About your children.”
They stood in awkward silence. He looked out over the taffrail at the Sea Beggar fleet. So did she, watching the Gotland’s wake as it swirled and whispered. Adam’s words whirled in her head. My wife . . . your husband.
“I meant to thank you,” he said, looking out.
She didn’t understand. “For what?”
“Warning me about Alba.”
“Ah. Thank the wind. For hobbling his ships.”
“No, you. If you hadn’t come when you did we’d all be in chains in Alba’s prison.”
She remembered the hideous water torture and shivered. “We may be yet.”
Adam turned to her. “What happened after we parted? How did you know Alba had sent his men for me?”
She watched the ships but felt his eyes on her. To explain meant to confess that she had betrayed him, and she shrank from that. But part of her wanted him to know and understand. So she began, and told it all, starting with the bizarre day she saw Claes in Polder after five years of believing him dead. Told how she’d offered to take some of her gold to his Brethren friends in Brussels. How only days after she reached the capital she saw Johan hanged and Claes sent as a captive to await execution. How she set out to shoot Alba.
He listened, rapt, and at her last words he asked in astonishment, “Shoot him?”
“Your brother-in-law stopped me.”
“Carlos?” His surprise was even greater.
“He made up for it later.” She wanted to get the awful part over with, and barreled through how she’d been held in the dungeon and Alba had interrogated her. “He wanted to know where you were.” She was dry mouthed as she told how Alba had brought in a girl and boy and told her they were Kate and Robert. How he’d again demanded the information about Adam and, when she
refused, how he’d had the girl killed before her eyes.
“Good God,” Adam whispered.
“They were beggar children he’d dressed up. I thought they were yours. It was so ghastly . . . that poor girl. And he would have killed the boy next. So . . .” Fenella was so shaken she was clenching the taffrail, the skin of her knuckles as taut as a windward sheet. “So I told him where I thought you were.”
He let out a kind of moan. She could not look at him. She plowed on. How even after her confession Alba had sent her to hang. How she’d been put in a cart with Claes . . . his ear mutilated . . . taken to the Grote Markt for execution. How, to her amazement, Carlos Valverde had then taken charge of the cart and managed their escape.
“Carlos freed you?” Adam said in wonder.
“Your sister helped.” She turned to him and told him about the coach. His eyes went wide with surprise. “Claes was fevered . . . his ear . . .” Her stomach felt rocky, her legs weak, from reliving these horrors. As she looked into Adam’s eyes, tears pricked hers. “We took a boat . . . hard sailing. I had to get to you, because . . . because I told Alba. Can you ever forgive me?”
Suddenly his arms were around her. “Fenella . . . Fenella,” he moaned. “What hell you’ve been through. I had no idea.”
A thrill ran through her. He didn’t hate her! Her hands slid up his back and she held him tight, her cheek against his shoulder, his heartbeat pulsing against hers. She closed her eyes, heady with the hardness of his body, the strength that throbbed in him.
“I’m sorry,” he moaned. “So sorry.” He pulled back, still gripping her arms, his eyes searching hers. “Can you forgive me?”
“For what?”
“How I’ve acted. I was so angry. That you had let me think your husband was dead.”
“On Sark, I thought he was.”
“But in Brussels. On Verhulst’s barge . . .”
She nodded in misery. “Yes.” She had seen Claes by then, knew the work he was doing. “I should have told you, but . . .” She dared to hold his gaze. “I wanted you so much.”
